d-splashed fist at the sky. "Where were You this day?
God! God! The blood of men on Thine altars--"

"Faith, you must be new come to Ireland, then!"

At the shrill, mocking voice the man whirled about and his huge blade
was out like a flash. But only a cackling laugh answered him, as down
from the bank above slipped a perfect hag of a creature, and he drew
back in alarm. At that instant the moon flooded out; his sudden motion
had flung off his wide hat, and he stood staring at the wrinkled
creature whose scanty garments and thin-shredded gray locks were pierced
by a pair of weird brown eyes.

Then he quivered indeed, and even the poor horse took a step backward,
for the old woman had flung up her arms with a shrill cry as she gazed
on the yellow-haired young man.

"The O'Neill!" The words seemed to burst from her involuntarily. She
craned forward, her hands twisting at her ragged shawl, and a flood of
Gaelic poured from her lips as she stared at the awe-struck man.

"Are you, then, the earl, come back from the dead? Ghost of Tyr-owen,
why stand you here idle in the gap of Ulster, where once Cuculain fought
against the host of Meave? Do you also stand here to fight as he
fought--"

"Peace, mad-woman!" exclaimed the young man, stooping after his hat.
"Peace, and be off out of my way, for I have far to ride."

The Gaelic words came roughly and brokenly from him, but the old hag
took no heed. Instead, she advanced swiftly and laid her hand on his
arm, still gazing into his face with a great wonder on her wrinkled
features.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "Tell the Black Woman your name, if you
are no ghost! For even as you stand now, once did these eyes see the
great earl himself."

"I am from Drogheda," answered the man, something very like fear stamped
on his powerful and bitter-touched young face. "My name is Brian Buidh,
and I ride to join Owen Ruadh--"

"Liar!" The old woman spat forth the word with a cackle of laughter.
"Oh, you cannot fool the Black Woman, Yellow Brian! Listen--Brian your
name is, and Yellow Brian your name shall be indeed, since this is your
will. Owen Ruadh O'Neill lies at the O'Reilly stead at Lough Oughter,
but you shall never ride to war behind him, Brian Buidh! No--the Black
Woman tells you, and the Black Woman knows. Instead, you shall ride into
the west, and there shall be a storm of men--a storm of men behind you
and before you--"

"For the love of Heaven, have done!" cried Yell